


Bloody Maudlin Nonsense

by cleoselene



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Mild Smut, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 00:33:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29126535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cleoselene/pseuds/cleoselene
Summary: Jaskier takes shelter with King Foltest in Temeria at the castle during the bottle of Sodden and reminisces on Queen Calanthe when he hears she is dead.
Relationships: Calanthe Fiona Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 6
Kudos: 6





	Bloody Maudlin Nonsense

**Author's Note:**

> I have not read the books just watched the show don't attack me for not knowing book stuff!

The fire in the hearth was a welcome comfort. He was glad King Foltest had obliged him and given him a luxurious room that its own hearth The housekeeper offered him some dogs to sleep with, but he politely declined, not particularly wanting to wake up smelling of dog.

He did long for warmth, though. And companionship.

The news had come like the smell of smoke in the air. He was in Temeria when he heard, entertaining the Princess for her birthday celebration. Many people thought the Princess a peculiar sort, but Jaskier had met plenty far more peculiar in his years, and King Foltest paid well every time. He always made sure to sing the songs about Geralt to the Princess. She didn’t know the White Wolf was her savior, it was a secret in Temeria, but one night after too many glasses of ale with the sorceress Triss Merigold a few years ago at one of the Princess’ birthdays, she had told him the story of how she and Geralt of Rivia had broken the curse that had turned the Princess into a Striga. Would have made a bloody good song. Too bad it was a secret.

He poured himself a bottle of ale and kicked off his boots as he smiled faintly, thinking of Triss Merigold. Sweet as honey, that one. Not like the other sorceresses he’d met. That drunken night of conversation had revealed that she considered Yennefer -- Yennefer of bloody Vengerberg! -- to be a mentor and a friend. The thought made Jaskier sad for all the other people poor Triss had met at this witch school. Triss was a sweet fling, they had fun, they giggled over some herbs she mixed into a potion, he wrote a song about how he loved curly hair and freckles. She playfully told him never to sing it again, but he knew she didn’t mean it.

Trips to Temeria were usually so lighthearted and fun.

But Triss Merigold had left King Foltest’s service by now, and the news stole the breath from his throat when it was announced earlier at Foltest’s dinner table.

Cintra had fallen. Queen Calanthe, King Eist, even little Princess Cirilla -- all dead. The Lioness had been broken. 

“Speechless” was not a word many people used to describe Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, but it’s how he found himself at the news. No, not Cintra. He’d said the words so many times he had truly come to believe it. Queen Calanthe would die before she let them take what was hers. And die she did. 

He stared straight ahead at nothing, still clutching his knife and fork for the gods only knew how long, before blinking out of his shock as everyone around the table began murmuring in hushed tones about what this must mean for the continent. Carefully, he set down his utensils and reached for the wine. It was rich and sweet and he tasted none of it as he swallowed it down until the goblet was empty. No one was looking at him; he was grateful. In times of shocking news of war, no one ever gave a fuck about the bard’s opinion, and he liked it that way. So when he excused himself from the table for the evening, no one paid him any mind, and as he walked the stone halls back to his chambers, a chill wind howled in through the windows and made him shiver.

Had he met anyone more full of life than Queen Calanthe? He didn’t think so. She was fire and passion and violence and love with a ferocity that he would never fully understand. He did not love her, not forever, but for moments. He loved her when he had her, liked he loved everyone he bedded, on those nights she invited him in, before she married the king, when she was still a free woman, when love hadn’t captured her heart.

Back in his room, he laughed sadly at the thought. Calanthe would never have admitted any part of her had ever been captured, least of all her heart. But she had loved Eist. It had been obvious to anyone who saw them together. Of course, Eist loved her more than she loved him-- Calanthe would never have let herself be that vulnerable. Only for her little ones. Only for her girls. 

**********************

He was barely a man the first time he’d had the opportunity to play at Queen Calanthe’s court. It was years before that fateful night when Geralt had played his part in Princess Pavetta’s wedding. A simpler night. But oh! He had been so frightened. The Lioness of Cintra was known for being formidable, and he knew if she did not like his music, she would not be shy about it. He remembered the way his fingers trembled as he touched them to the lute, the way he had to pull them away for a moment, squeezing his hand into a fist to steady himself before playing a bawdy jig a friend of his had told him was a favorite of the Queen’s.

His fingers had been so nimble that night! After the first moment of nervousness had passed, he felt fully himself again, smiling at the little ones, winking at the women, singing the curse words extra loudly along with the men. As all Cintran balls, it lasted well into the night, but when the Queen decided it was over, it was over.

Mainly because she declared she was taking the bard with her for her private entertainment. He blushed almost as much as poor Princess Pavetta, though for entirely different reasons.

The truth was, he found her enchanting. Yes, she was older, but women don’t suddenly stop being beautiful as they get a bit older, did they? Yes, she was mildly terrifying, but he was never one to back down just because it could be a bit of an adventure, either. So he strapped his lute on his back and followed the Queen of Cintra back to her chambers.

“I suppose you know something of pleasure, bard, with all those lewd songs you sing,” Calanthe said as she stalked down the hall, Jaskier barely catching up. Goodness, he thought to himself. How did the woman walk so damn fast in a corset and heels like that?

“Well, Your Majesty, in truth, I try to write from true experiences as much as possible,” she could not see the big charming grin he wore, but it was a reflex at this point. “And I’m told I’m quite good at taking direction!”

Calanthe let out a throaty laugh as they entered her bedchamber, turning around. “Excellent, it will serve you well in this room.” She took a moment to look him up and down. “Well, aren’t you adorable. You’d make a shit knight, but as bards go, quite fitting. Now give me that smile you were trying out when I wasn’t looking.”

Jaskier let out a short laugh and ran a finger through his hair, setting down his lute carefully and offering a smile as instructed, the smile he always gave to women he’s wanting to bed, starting on one side of his mouth and moving to completion on the other side, completed with a wink.

Calanthe tossed her head back and laughed, holding a stein of beer, “Fucking perfect. I bet that makes all the little ladies-in-waiting and bored wives of old men weak in the knees, doesn’t it?” She set the beer down on a table and kicked off her shoes. “Come here, help me out of this bloody gown and corset.”

He looked around, wide-eyed. Countesses, several duchesses, even a princess once. He’d had them all. But a queen? Of a kingdom as prized as Cintra? True, she was not wed, hadn’t been since her husband had died years ago, but still, he had to swallow hard before stepping close as she turned around and looked over her shoulder, an expectant, demanding look on her face.

What could he say, what could he even dare to think about his night with the Queen of Cintra? She was magnificent; that is all he would be able to say if anyone tortured him for information. She knew what she wanted, an all too rare and precious trait in a lover, male or female. They laughed, he sang, she gave him some earnest, if sharp, pointers on his songs. She also threatened to have him beheaded if he ever wrote a song about their time together.

She kept him until dawn, fucking and playing and drinking and eating, like hedonists. Her majesty lived as she battled: with the full force of her passions, and while it did excite him just a little bit to add a queen to his conquests, it was Calanthe -- Calanthe -- that captivated him.

He’d never uttered her name, stumbling through a litany of “your majestys” all night, but after he sang her a ballad after breakfast and a bad the next morning, Calanthe sipped her morning beer* Call me Calanthe when we are alone, *she remarked, *if you’re lucky enough to have my company again.”

He never was. Years passed, and he played the royal court of Cintra several times, but Her Majesty’s attentions became distracted by the King of Skellige, and what’s a bard to a kingdom? A mere amusement. It’s what he was to most people, but for a few hours that night with the queen, it felt like more. He got to see her eyes alight with intelligence and wit. He got to kiss her strong body, caress and gently touch each battle scar. Calanthe was proud of every scar, had a story for each one. So different from everyone he’d ever met, he thought, over and over, and she could be described as boastful, except that he enjoyed it. He enjoyed the confidence, the tales of adventure. He could write so many songs about the Queen of Cintra, and perhaps that was the point. She was regaling him with every heroic tale for the next song to fill the taverns of the Continent.

It was working.

And just as the night stretched on, then suddenly, it was over. Over and done and she was sending him away and his mind was swirling with music. Heroic epic tales, and, for once, not about Geralt. That was something in and of itself! The grumpy old Witcher was sure to be pleased about that!

**********************

Song after song, he wrote of the warrior queen, so many times he was often invited back to perform at court. It was, unfortunately, an invitation that stopped coming when he brought Geralt with him that fateful night.

_“Save the bloody maudlin nonsense for my funeral!”_

Jaskier snapped out of his reverie. There was no funeral. Bloody maudlin nonsense indeed. There was no funeral for Queen Calanthe. Most of her own refugees hated her. But he didn’t. He never could. He’s seen a side of her that few had. He’d seen her in all her power and beauty and glory and they’d shared a night, just one night, just one perfect night.

He picked up his lute and left his room, going out to a common area, sparsely populated, quiet, surrounded by torched and skins, cozy and comfortable, far away from the battle ongoing at Sodden.

His eyes closed as his fingers worked the lute, figuring out a tune as the words tried to form in his head. A few people gathered around, noticing the aching beauty of the wordless tune. He surrendered control to the music, just as he surrendered control to Calanthe all those years ago, and it almost felt like she was there, whispering in his ear to be perfect, not to embarrass her, for the sake of the spirits. 

_Embarrass you?_ He thought, _Never._

When the words finally formed, his voice was soft at first, but it built in emotion, almost cracking but staying at the edge, remaining on the side of beauty, saying goodbye, expressing his awe, expressing his anger, rallying the onlookers to smite Nilfgaard down. It was a rousing song, one he was inspired to practically make up on the spot, but by the end, the hook was so infectious that men and women were raising their cups of ale and singing along.

“Calanthe,” he thought, “you did this.”

A shiver ran over his skin. Did she know? Or was this blasted castle just drafty? He set down his lute and turned to stare at the fire. 

He didn’t know when he’d write his next jig.

“Sorry, you Majesty,” he said softly. “I’m not much in for jigs these days.”

From outside, he could hear the sky crack.


End file.
